


Choir Cum Dump

by handwizard69



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Creampies, Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, Beast transformation, CBT, D/s, Deepthroat, FaceFucking, Huge Dick, Humuliation, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Piss, Queerphobic Violence, Slapping, There's not really any plot, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Weapon Fucking, beast fucking, belt whipping, cum dump, degredation, dubcon, gagging, it's just a lot of filth, liberal use of the word faggot, non binary/masc pairings, non-binary choir member, piss drinking, random beast death, sloppy asshole, sloppy gross sex, sweaty hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwizard69/pseuds/handwizard69
Summary: A Choir member roams Yharnam on the night of a Hunt. It's not beasts they're after, but anonymous loads from big sweaty Hunters.Please read all the tags so you know what you're getting into! The D/s gets pretty brutal, and this work is not intended for those without a good grasp of what is and isn't healthy in D/s relationships. This is not an instruction manual, only a fantasy. Also there is some actual plot happening in Chapter 2.I couldn't figure out a more inventive title. Everything I tried out kind of sucked, so... "Choir Cum Dump" it is.
Relationships: Choir Member/Hunters
Comments: 12
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter I

The Hunter smelled like oiled leathers and gun smoke, and the sweat that ran over his pelted chest and stomach had the bitter aftertaste of beast blood. The Choir member ran out their tongue, letting the hunter slap the head of their cock against it a few times before pushing it inside and beginning to pump.

He came quickly, his hands hands pressed to the back of the Choir member’s head, holding them down against the dark nest of hair at the root of their cock, suffocating an already sloppy throat with his cum.

The Choir member pulled back, gasping for breath. White cum dripped onto the dirty cobblestones of the alleyway. The Hunter let them catch a few breaths before pulling them back onto his cock for a few more final strokes.

“Open your mouth,”

The Choir member opened their mouth as wide as they could.

“Swallow it.” the Hunter said, “All of it.”

The Choir member swallowed.

The Hunter grunted.

“You missed some,”

They toed the earth, indicating a small white puddle near their foot.

The Choir member was instantly over it, licking it up over the grit of the cobblestone. The Hunter’s leather boot sported a stray white droplet, which they licked and sucked into their mouth, swallowing hard.

“Nasty slut,” the Hunter said.

“Please,” the Choir member said, hands folded neatly over their bent knees. “I know the Hunt is long. Come use me again whenever you feel the need.”

\---

This Hunter was bigger than the last. Bigger and insatiable. He let the Choir member kneel before them and nuzzle against his crotch before unbuttoning his trousers and pulling out his cock. It was thick and plump, something like an engorging leech, throbbing and heavy.

The Choir member made a soft sound of wonder at the back of their throat when they saw it. It was meant to be inside them, meant to mark them with its thick scent. They grasped it, heavy and large in their hand, and rubbed it against the smooth planes of their cheeks, against their soft lips. The heavy scent of cock musk mingled with the tang of his sweat coated their face. Each inhale made their cock twitch, their entire body so weak with lust it felt as though it would cave in on itself. This Hunter could do whatever they wanted with them.

The Hunter stroked himself as they sucked on his balls, sliding his foreskin back over the ruddy head of his cock.. A single bead of pre-cum glistened atop a golden cock ring parting his slit. The ring was seamless, nestled close against the Hunter’s cock, piercing down into the tender frenum. It served as an apotropaics, stemming from that same superstition that made their garb jingle with small brass charms.

They tongued the ring and the Hunter groaned. They slid the warm metal over their tongue, luxuriating in the feeling of it pushing back deeper and deeper, testing their gag reflex as they filled their mouth with as much of his girth as they could. The feeling of cock butting against the back of their throat made their brain weak and numb, made their hole ache to get fucked. They hadn’t been fucked by anything this big that night—a small group of Hunters had plowed their hole in quick succession some hours ago, messing it with their loads, but nothing this monstrously large and pierced had added to that mess.

They reached down beneath their skirts with their free hand and probed back, toying with their asshole, fingering it with short, frantic thrusts. They groaned over the Hunter’s cock, eyes behind the filigreed mask rolling back in stupefied pleasure. They weren’t going to be able to take much more of this.

“I need you to fuck me,” the Choir member gasped, their mouth pulled off the Hunter’s thick cock, the wet head dribbling a thread of spittle. “Please—”

“Tell me why,”

His voice was low and gruff and purred with unhurried pleasure.

“Because I’m—” they said, flushing. “because I’m just a pair of useless holes meant for fucking.”

“Show me.”

The Choir member turned around and in one smooth motion drew up the skirts of their garb to uncover their ass as they lowered themselves down on their elbows. They arched their back, knees spread wide, exposing their dripping pink asscunt to the Hunter.

“Face down.” the Hunter said. “All the way.”

They pressed their head down against the earth, cheek against cold cobblestone. The night air touched their skin where the crotch of their pantaloons had been ripped open for easy access. The wait was incredible. Their cock throbbed almost painfully, but they held the desire to stroke it, waiting only for the Hunter. His word. His touch.

They gasped when it came—two large, ungloved hands on their asscheeks, pulling them apart to expose their asshole even more. It made their asshole twitch and throb, made their cock jump.

The Hunter moaned low in his throat.

The Hunter spat on their hole, and the Choir member keened and whined, trying not to squirm too much at the warm spittle running down over their taint. Two fingers pushed inside, then parted, stretching against the loosened ring, testing its limits. They rubbed their fingers around the ragged pink rim, then dipped in and fucked it quickly with two fingers, making wet, slick smacking sounds.

The Hunter pulled their fingers out, leaving their hole gaping wide open. The Choir member breathed hard against the cold stone. Some men didn’t like it, lusting only after a virgin tightness that was near impossible to find in this world, worried a well-used fuck toy like them wouldn’t give enough sensation. But being tight did them no good—everyone who saw them needed to know how much of a slut they were. How easy they were to get into. How badly they had been ruined and how badly they needed to keep getting ruined.

“Now there’s a sight,” he said, and the Choir member melted against the cobblestone. “You’ve been awfully bad tonight, haven’t you,”

“Yes,” they said, their face blooming with heat.

“How many loads have you taken?”

“Five,”

The Hunter shifted behind them.

“Oh no…” he said, and nestled the head of his cock into the entrance of their hole. “that’s not nearly enough.”

The Hunter rammed his cock fully inside in one movement. The Choir member gasped, ass spasming around the Hunter’s cock as it penetrated deep into their guts. The Hunter grabbed their hips and held them there, making sure they could not throw him off. They squirmed on the huge cock, clenching their ass around it, shuddering with the sick pleasure of being filled.

Their cock throbbed, aching, threatening to spurt out a ruined orgasm at the sensation before they had really had their fill. They gritted their teeth against it, burying their forehead against the earth as the Hunter held them firmly on the thick length of them.

“You like that, hm?”

“Yes—”

“Like some big Hunter cock filling you up, don’t you?” he asked, sliding out slowly before ramming his cock back in deep.

“Yes—” another thrust “yes—I love it—”

The Hunter fucked them, churning the cream in their asshole until it was foaming and dripping out. Thick globs slid down over the Hunter’s weighty balls, giving his thrusting a sloppy smacking sound as he pounded. Every few thrusts he pulled out nearly all the way, letting the large head of his cock slip out of the ring of their asshole, teasing it, before slamming back in, grazing their prostate and lighting their nerves on fire.

The Choir member whimpered into the earth, gasping and gripping at stone. They bit their own lower lip to stay quiet, but there was no stopping the throaty keening as the Hunter stretched their hole, hammering into their guts with a depth that was sickening. They trembled, their face hot and burning, the fat head of the Hunter’s cock and veiny shaft milking every last bit of sense they had out of their head.

“I’m going to cum—” they breathed. “I’m going—”

“No you’re not.” the Hunter said, “I’m not fucking done with you.”

With that, he doubled down. His grip on their hips dug into their hipbones painfully as he slammed them down on his cock. He met it with a thrust of his own, the meeting of their exposed skin, coated with leaking cum, slapping and squelching.

The Choir member’s cock swung wildly, brushing against the soft falls of their Choir skirts, the sensation on their tenderly exposed head maddening. They were going to cum from getting their ass fucked. There was no stopping it. The Hunter heaved a few more times, growling low in his throat, and then his cock spasmed inside the Choir member’s ass, breeding them deep. The Choir member clenched their asshole around his cock, sliding forward a little bit, just for a little more—a _little more_ friction—

The Hunter grabbed their waist.

“Don’t fucking move.”

But it was too late—with a gasping moan, their orgasm broke, sending spurts of cum against their clothes, the cobblestones. Their asshole pulsed around the Hunter’s cock, every inch still lodged inside of them. They were desperate to reach beneath their skirts and stroke their cock, to heighten the heights of their orgasm, making sure to stroke out every last drop of cum, but they resisted, letting their orgasm roll through them like a broken wave.

The Hunter grabbed their asscheeks and pushed them off of his cock. Cum oozed out, sliding down their taint and splatting on the ground as the well-fuck ed hole above it winked and gaped, as if, somehow,  it remained un s atisfied. 

“ Turn around.”

The Choir member turned around carefully,  staying on their hands and knees before the kneeling Hunter. He  was a dark shape in the mouth of the alleyway— a large shape of a man with a still-hard cock protruding from his trousers,  strings of cum sticking to the gold ring glistening in the tip. 

The Hunter had wiped up the cum from the ground and held it out on two fingers. The Choir member didn’t need to be asked—the Hunter knew they didn’t need to be asked. They opened their mouth and the Hunter stuck his fingers in, smearing the semen and dirt around their teeth, their gums, over their tongue, reaching down into their throat to gag them momentarily. He drew his fingers out, lingering on the Choir member’s pink lower lip. 

“ How’s that taste?”

“Good,” they leaned forward to suck on his fingers. “so good,”

“ You want more? ” 

“ Yes,” they breathed out, their cock responding to the idea with an impressive eagerness.

“ P lay with yourself  for me .”  he said. “Sit back. Spread your legs,”

The Choir member obeyed, seating themselves on the cold ground with their legs spread. The Hunter started stroking his cock, half-hard and pendant in his hand. The Choir member locked eyes with him and started stroking their cock slowly.

“ Play with your hole.” the Hunter said. 

The Choir member  slipped two fingers down to their hole and began circling it, smearing the cum around in the  wisps of hair that  surrounded it. 

“That’s it,” the Hunter said,  his cock starting to regain its rigidity. “ that’s it… move your balls out of the way. Lie back like a whore  and show me. ”

The Choir member’s face flushed with embarrassment as they lay flat on their back and spread their legs to expose themselves as much as possible. They held their balls up, hiding them and their cock with one hand while the other began rubbing their glistening pink hole again, quickly slipping fingers inside and moaning softly at the tender sensation.

“Fuck yourself for me. Push my cum out, I want to see it.”

They flushed  hotter this time. Being exposed like this was embarrassing enough, but pushing out cum made them f lare up with  shame.  It was s omewhat disgusting. B ut both of these things, the shame and the disgust, only  made their cock even harder.

They pushed out, two fingers still rooted in their hole, feeling their own hot, slick guts pushing down against them. A dribble of cum  came out, running down over their fingers into the super-sensitive webbing of their knuckles.

“Yeah… yeah… keep pushing, it’s coming out.”

They kept pushing cum out, moaning as each hot dribble made their cock throb even harder.  Soon there was a puddle of cum beneath their ass, pooled on  the cold cobblestone.

“ You ready for more?” 

“Yes,” they said, three fingers buried to the knuckles in their own ass. “ I need more ,”

The Hunter stepped over and got on his knees, grabbing the Choir member’s legs and pulling them around his waist, nestling his cock against their hole. They were effectively upside-down, only their shoulders and head on the ground, the rest of them supported by the Hunter’s thighs.  He started thrusting slowly, one hand holding his cock down against them. Their asshole rubbed against the root of his cock, the shaft sliding over their taint, head butting against their balls.

“ Ready?”

“Yes—” they painted, closing their eyes, anticipating the arcing spurt of white, hot cum all over their own cock and balls.

The Hunter groaned low, holding his cock as it flexed, and then the stream started.

But what came out wasn’t cum  at all. I t was piss.

The Hunter’s hot urine splashed over their chest, reaching up to their face when the stream strengthened,  coating their chin and cheeks, splashing up into their nostrils. 

“Open  your mouth ,”

The Choir member opened their mouth,  ready to accept anything that came out of the Hunter’s cock,  no matter how awful it was .  They were a slut for cock—they would take anything that came out of it. They  _had_ to.

Their mouth quickly filled with the salty tang of piss, then started to overflow, pouring down their cheeks. The angle they were at made it flow up into their hair before it soaked the ground below them. 

Mouth full, the Hunter  stopped his stream.

“ Swallow it,” he said.

The Choir member grimaced and closed their mouth. The smell now was incredible. Their eyes watered. Their balls ached, cock desperate to be touched and stroked.

“ I said s wallow.”

They swallowed it, gulping hard and gasping when it was done, overcome by the feeling.  Degrading. Disgusting. They wanted more.

The ir mouth was filled  twice more, and  twice more they swallowed it down. On the last time, the Hunter  grabbed their cock  and stroked it  while their throat muscled swallowed, and the touch was so surprising they sputtered and gasped, coughing and choking.

“ Open your mouth,” the Hunter said again, leaning over the Choir member, covering their slight body with his, planting himself on his elbows, one on either side of their face.

They opened their mouth, tongue out, and the Hunter spit in it. 

“ Swallow.” 

They swallowed. And when they began to open their mouth again for more, the Hunter met their lips with his own. 

The kiss was deep and unexpected, the Hunter’s tongue exploring  their mouth, licking in every corner  as he moaned .  _He likes the taste of his own piss in my mouth_ the Choir member realised, kissing back  softly , letting their mouth be explored.

The Hunter repositioned himself, mouth still locked on to theirs, and shoved his cock slowly inside their asshole. 

This time was different—slower, headier, their mouths connected, tongues sliding over each other, covered in piss-tainted spit.  The Hunter  rutted at him small, quick jabs until he was near his climax. He leaned back then, fucking a piston pitch into the Choir member’s asshole, and then  came deep inside, head back, his  Adam's apple bobbing with the long, low grunt of pleasure  as the Choir member below him lay soaked in piss and yearning for release.

\---

The Hunter left them after two more loads,  and then they were alone in the quiet,  lying in the dark alley covered in  someone else’s  cold piss and cum. 

The Choir member could see the moon, now, hanging low over the eave of a tiled roof. They closed their eyes, hips  and jaw  aching, their cock finally soft for the first time since this particular Hunt had started.  At the end of the alleyway  behind them  lay the rank carcass of a beast. Its blood, and the white arc of an exposed rib bone, gleamed in the low light of a torch across the road.  Somewhere distant, a beast howled. Gunshots  scattered in the dark air, and somewhere not too far off could be heard the metallic clang of a gleaming weapon transforming.  More Hunters were on their way.  Maybe they would come this way, and maybe one of them would  glance down the alley, fearing a beast but instead finding a  lone Choir member, eager  to ease them of their burden. 

Most of the Hunters took them up on this offer. How could they not? When the blindfold cap so sweetly covered their eyes, robbing them of a gaze, of their humanity, turning their entire person into nothing but a willing pink mouth.

It didn’t matter how many sins they had committed to get the garb. It was their snow. Their first Hunt out wearing it they had been gang-banged so mercilessly by a group of young Hunters they had passed out. They woke up with another Hunter’s cock stuffed in their mouth, asshole bleeding, their face covered in cum, thighs coated in it. It had never been like this before. Earlier, when they first started going out on the Hunt, they had worn their Hunter leathers, hat tipped down low as they beckoned lonely Hunters from the shadows. Some came, ready to fuck or be sucked, but there was something missing in the way these Hunters used them. They were fucked, surely, at either end, but with a mute efficiency. Few came back to repeat the experience the same night.

The Choir garb changed everything. 

It didn’t matter who they were before. They were just a faceless member of the Choir now. And as it turned out, the only thing a Hunter wanted to destroy more than a beast was a member of the Church who was responsible for the beasts in the first place.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our danger-seeking Choir-impersonating cum dump gets into Old Yharnam on a night of the Hunt, and ends up with a little more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the same stuff as chapter one, kink wise, though this has more D/s and is much more cruel with it. Please read through all the tags thoroughly, though, so you know what you’re getting yourself into. And if you’re not already thoroughly familiar with bdsm and D/s and what is and is not healthy in those contexts, I don’t suggest reading this, as it is a fantasy and not an instruction manual. 
> 
> Two notes before we get into this: a “girdle” is just an old word for belt, which I’m using for the belt of the Choir garb, since I think the archaic feel is nice, and that Laurence would approve. Also, different words like “Hunter” and “Beast” are capitalized as a form of respect from our sub, like the title of Master/Sir/etc. When they are not capitalized, those words are no longer being used as titles.

The Hunter was in Old Yharnam, and he shook.

Stripped of blood vials by the path he had taken, he crouched low in a narrow street, and the hand that pressed against his bleeding stomach was not steady. Neither was his breath, which aspirated white hot past his yellowing teeth, carrying with it enough spittle so that it foamed at the mouth. The teeth themselves were growing long. The moon was low, and red.

He needed blood. He smelled blood everywhere, but it was the blood of beasts. The stink of it rose from his own clothes and skin, gleaming on the edge of his axe, doubling his vision at the stench of it, his stomach clenching and flipping in a way that was almost hunger, almost the wrenching pain that precluded sick. He hunched forward, ready to empty his stomach out on the ground, but it did not come. Instead, the twisting sensation shuddered down inside of him, ratcheting through his bowels and diffusing up into a bolt of light-headedness. A darkness passed over his brain, and an eerie sensation followed, one that felt like his pupils were trying to dilate to a light that did not exist.

He shook it off. He got up. His left shoulder twitched, jerking upwards towards his head, and then the arm joined, tendons and muscle snapping back, distorting the shape. Blood. He needed blood. The odd feeling in his sight persisted, almost as though blinded by the sun, though the night was dark, and the torches in the abandoned place mostly unlit. Why was he here? This was Old Yharnam, a place abandoned by the city above. Why was he alone, without a single other hunter in sight? He was covered in the stinking blood of beasts, and the moon above was low and watching. Surely it was a night of the Hunt. But why was he _here_?

A cool breeze lifted off the surface of the snaking river below and washed the Hunter in the scent of beasts once more. He closed his eyes. The twisting feeling within him—he could not call it pleasure of pain or disgust or desire—returned, this time making the muscles of his jaw tighten, grinding his molars against each other. His left arm again shuddered and twitched, the skin prickling. Down below came the warm, steady pulse of his cock coming to attention. Blood. Yes. He needed blood.

He gripped the handle of his axe and began to walk.

♦

The Hunter slaughtered his way past two scourge beasts to make it to the small alleyway where the dead Choir member lay. The corpse lay twisted, back flat to the ground, hips on their side. Its skirts were canted up at the back, almost as if they had been risen before death, or as though someone had already rummaged through their clothes, looking and taking whatever they desired. One long, white thigh gleamed softly in the low light, and the Hunter followed the shape up to the gentle curve of a buttocks. A distracting shape.

The Hunter moved forward, eyes locked on the white flesh. Surely the corpse would have blood on it. The Hunter _needed_ the Choir member to have blood on it. His eyes were dimming. The shakes of his muscles, and the twitching, crawling feeling over his skin was getting worse by the minute. He could not keep killing. It was not possible to constantly be tearing down a beast. But when he stopped, his body ached. The twitching, the tensing, the snapping and aching in his muscles as they tried to shape and bulge beneath his skin needed the violence to be unbroken.

The blood would stop all this. It would set him back. He would have more time.

It had never gotten this bad before. In fact, the Hunter could not conceive truly of how bad it was. Did not know that the change, no matter what he did, would come tonight.

♦

The Hunter frisked the corpse lightly, his hands feeling large and ungainly, unable to pick at the cloth as he wished. There _had_ to be blood. A prick like this, all the way from the Upper Cathedral, had to have blood. Had to have the good shit. Not what they gave low-lifes like the Hunter himself. Pure, untainted blood, as good as any saint’s or whore’s.

He thrust his hand down, seeking around the back of the corpse’s girdle, and his hand hit cold, unbroken glass.

He drew out two vials of blood and injected them quickly, without hesitation, one after the other. The effect was instantaneous: the burning at the injection site melting away into what could only be called a rippling, full body high. The will of the blood sang within him, sang the choruses of the Holy and the Golden and of the Almighties above. Kos! The Great Mother—coming to him here, in this alleyway, meeting his own flesh and filing him with the grace of life.

He let himself fall back against the wall of the alley. The blood steeped in him, slowly melting away the knotting pain of his muscles, soothing out the jerking of his shoulder, in his overly long left arm. His breathing evened. The wound in his stomach knit itself closed, and the seam of it almost glowed with bliss. His cock jumped into life again, and that was there to enjoy as well. Why not! It was a gift, the all-encompassing blood of euphoria. He kept his head leant back against the stone of the alleyway and breathed.

And smelt, as though he had just stumbled into the alley way this moment, the smell of the corpse. It was not unlike the smell of beast blood itself: it split the Hunter down the middle, unable to be either wholly good or wholly bad. The corpse was newly dead, that was certain, for there was no stench of decay about it, but it smelt… unwashed. The Hunter opened his eyes and lowered his head, sniffing over the corpse’s chest. Yes, it smelled like the stink and sweat of a Hunter, in fact, like that of a thousand different Hunters, and like a thousand different Hunters’ and piss and spit. And when he moved closer over the corpse, sniffing its neck, and over its chest, and down past its girdle of wrapped chain, it smelled like cum.

A low growl echoed in the alleyway, startling the Hunter, tearing him away from the discovery. He grabbed his axe with both hands, brandishing it across his body so that the elongated haft could hold against the lunge of a Scourge beast. They were here—god they were here in so many numbers—but he did not hear the sound again. Neither did he hear the soft tacking of their claws over the cobblestone.

He looked back down at the corpse. The dead Choir member’s head was tilted back, the blindfold mask slightly askew over its face. The lips were parted, and the lower split open and smeared with blood, giving it the affect of whorish makeup. Its skin was pale, the cheekbone fine, and one lock of wispy, mousy brown hair curled out from the back of the cap, crossing the delicate skin of its neck. Its sex was rather indeterminate in the garb and low light—but it was pretty.

The Hunter groped down over its chest—shocked to find himself doing it, and somewhat shocked to find that it was flat, and that it was not dead at all. Weakly, against the Hunter’s palm, a heart beat.

He drew his hand back and held it before the parted lips. Yes, just a slight breath. Not dead at all, then, but simply unconscious. Something—and the Hunter’s cock told him it knew just what it had been—had proved to be too much for the Choir member. Whatever had done it had left it in its mess of piss and cum, uncaring—

The Hunter slipped his hand over the Choir member’s exposed thigh and gripped its ass. The blood coursed through him, beating harder and faster, the feeling of euphoria heightening until it blurred his vision, again as though the sun was dawning against his unshielded eyes, his pupils growing and mashing and dilating into a bleary delirium of light and hunger and want and need and the need was for blood, and for violence, and for the soft, warm flesh of the Choir member to engulf his blistering cock.

He pushed the Choir member over on its stomach, lifting the robes to expose its ass. He took his cock out, foreskin wet and sticking already, throbbing and bulging with veins. It was larger than usual, cumbersome in his hand. His breath was hot and slick, starting to come hard again, the breathing aspirating past clenched teeth that were too long, that were ground down by the muscles in his jaw.

He parted the thing’s ass cheeks and saw the sweet, hairless pucker of its asshole. Dried cum coated the ass cheeks themselves, but here, its cunt glistened with what was still wet, and still leaking out.

The Hunter nudged the head of his cock against it, teasing a glob of white cum out. He slicked it over his cock and slid himself all the way in easily in one quick thrust. God, it felt good. His balls rested heavy against its taint, its ass smooth and hot and like velvet around his cock. He pulled back and thrust again, and did it again, and again, the wet load of some unknown other Hunter frothing around his shaft. The Hunter hammered himself into the unconscious Choir member, its ass lips gripping his cock as it drew back, sucking him and taking every inch as though there was truly no end.

He grabbed his axe without thinking. The handle was coated with beast blood, half wet and half already dry and darkened. He spit on it, his cock still firmly lodged in the Choir member’s ass, and rubbed it over the cool metal, mixing it with blood until it was slick all over.

The Hunter drew back, removing his cock and straddled the axe, lining the handle up with the loosened hole of the Choir member. He nestled it close and began to push. It slowly disappeared into the Choir member’s ass if it was nothing. He hooked a thumb into its ass and pulled—the rim of its asshole stretched upwards, revealing a slick darkness between the handle and the pinkish skin. There was barely just enough room for the Hunter to slip his cock inside.

And so he did.

The feeling was incredible. His cock head slipped in easily, the loose sphincter tightening past the head, gripping his cock down firmly against the handle of his axe. The smooth metal, once cold, was growing warm, and as he slid his cock in deeper he could feel the ribbing of the wrapped linen over the handle, wet and textured and sliding over every throbbing inch of him. This only spanned the breadth of three inches or so before the metal exposed itself again, slick and warm, pushing his cock up against the velvety folds of the Choir Member’s slick asscunt.

The Hunter slid himself all the way in. He savored it a moment, flexing his cock against the twin sensations. A low growl came from his own throat, and that, too, felt good. Incredibly good. He sounded like an animal. He _liked_ sounding like an animal, especially as he fucked a member of the Choir into the ground. He was savage. Unstoppable. Like a beast.

He gripped the Choir Member’s ass cheeks, nails digging in like claws into the pale flesh. He spread the ass as wide as he could for the view of its cunt stretched over his own meaty cock, and his vision doubled at the sight of it, blurring with a heady rush of blood, of euphoria, of the need to destroy. The perfume of beast was everywhere, as was the smell of cum and piss and sweat and his own rank cock. It made him feel insane. Drunk. He was going to destroy this thing. He knew, the back of his mind, that he was going to keep fucking this thing until it really was dead.

He leaned forward, supporting himself on his arms over the Choir member, and began pumping his hips wildly, teeth bared, throat full of a low, keening grow. He was fucking it like a dog, senseless and slobbering, his huge, red prick rubbing raw in the thing’s wet guts, no more mind for how long he might last, for drawing the pleasure out for as long as possible. He needed to cum in the thing once, and then do it again, and then again ad again in a spew of was senseless, ceaseless fucking.

He heard a small keening below him, a stifled sound of wakefulness, a gasp of alarm. The Choir Member had woken. Its asshole tightened around his cock, gripping and squeezing it against the handle of the axe.

“Oh god—” he heard below him. “what is th—”

The Hunter lashed out in blind rage, grabbing the thing’s throat and crushing it in his hands.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, grinding his hips in deeper, and bared down on the thing’s neck. “ _this is all your fault_.”

♦

The Choir Member who was truly no real member of the Choir at all had wandered into Old Yharnam on the basis of a rumor that Hunters still patrolled there. Not the best Hunters of the Church, perhaps, but Hunters of the Church all the same. And like any Hunter, they still had needs, especially on nights full of blood.

So they stationed themselves somewhere out of the way, and they waited. A scourge beast was near, and they gripped their cleaver steadily, waiting should the wind shift and call the beast to them. It never did. Soon, the chorus of metal clanging and transforming could be heard, and the soft pattern blood falling over the ground like rain. Two voices were heard, and as many pairs of footsteps.

The Choir member emerged from the shadows to find two men dressed almost identically: members of the Otto workshop, it seemed. One was perhaps more to the Choir member's taste, somewhere slightly past middle age with rough, large hands, greying hair, and a thick, powerful body that knew the Hunt well. The other was much younger, slight of frame where the other was not, and fresher of face. As the Choir member studied them, an ever deeper similarity revealed itself to them above their kerchiefs. A likeness that went above just the similar clothing.

They were a father and son.

The father stiffened up at the sight of the Choir member emerging from the shadows. This was typical—a guard went up automatically around someone as high ranking as they seemed, though they found it could almost always be gotten past.

“Are you lost?” the father asked.

“Not at all.” they said. “I’m overseeing here for the Church. It’s important our Hunters are satisfied, you see, and that the Church sees to any relief they may need while on the Hunt.”

The son turned to his father with raised brows, seemingly clueless. The father eyed the Choir member cautiously, looking them up and down, then put a hand out to touch his son’s shoulder and guide him past.

“I see. I’m afraid we don’t need any relief,” he said.

“Are you quite certain?”

“Yes. You need to get out of here. I don’t care who you are or what’s normal for the Choir, but we’re not interested.”

“Suit yourself.” they said, backing away slowly.

It wouldn’t be them—not tonight. Or at least… not now. The father pawed at the son again, who was still looking at the Choir member, though the shadow over their eyes made it hard to tell just how they were staring.

“If you change your mind—”

“Hiram, come.” the father said, taking his son by the shoulder more roughly this time. “We’ve got to get back to the others.”

The Choir member backed into the dark of the alley, and decided to wait for the others.

♦

It took ten minutes. They were sat at the end of the alley when they heard footsteps—but it was just the one, hurried over the debris-covered cobblestone. It stopped at the mouth of the alleyway, a dark silhouette of coat and hat, with a gleaming, well-used cleaver against distant torch-light. The Choir member stood. The figured moved to pull down his kerchief.

“Relief, is it?” he asked, the youth in his voice shocking the Choir member.

It wasn’t the father at all, but the son.

“Yes,” they said.

“Yes, _sir,_ ” the Hunter corrected, and the Choir member’s heart knocked with excitement.

“Yes, sir.” they said.

“You do this for all Hunters?”

“All of them, yes, sir. No exception. My holes are open to anyone and everyone.”

The Hunter turned this over in his mind a moment, pleased by it. The Choir member stayed standing, demure, trying not to stare too much. But this one had an air about him that defied his previous act of confusion over the Choir member’s offer. It was attractive. Someone like the Choir member flocked to it intellectually. It made it hard not to gaze at him, to begin the supplication of worship.

The Hunter’s eyes grew cold, and he lifted his chin.

“Get on your knees.” he said.

The Choir member dropped to their knees instantly, the stone biting into their flesh giving them a rush of euphoria. They were under the complete control of a Hunter once more. Just where they belonged.

They kept their head down, reverent, waiting to be ordered.

“Come over here,” he said, his voice low. “and show me the kind of relief you can give me.”

The Choir member moved forward, shuffling on their knees. When they reached the Hunter, they reached for his belt, only to have their wrists grabbed and yanked forward.

With his free hand, the Hunter slapped them.

“Did I fucking say you could touch me?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Do you think you’re worthy of touching someone like me?”

“Not at all, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” they said. “Please feel free to punish me if you—”

The Choir member was cut off as the Hunter grabbed the fabric at their throat and wrenched them up by their collar, choking them with a gloved hand. His grip was so strong it was hard to breathe, which of course only made the cock beneath their skirts even harder.

“Listen to me, you fucking useless whore.” he said, shaking them with each word, his breath close and hot. “You don’t tell me what I am and am not allowed to do to you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what your purpose is here?”

“To be used, sir.” they said, straining to get it out. “To obey every order you give me, no matter how painful or disgusting. Every hole is yours, I’m a useless fucktoy that has no purpose except to be abused by you—please—I need your cum in every hole—”

The Hunter loosened his grip on their collar and threw them down. The Choir member collapsed, hunching over and coughing. The Hunter stepped close, bending down low over them.

“You sound like an eager, desperate slut. A little too eager. Too worked up.” he said and stood up fully. “Has it gotten your cock hard?”

They looked up at the Hunter, cap askew, face flushed.

“Yes, sir.” they admitted, ashamed.

“Show me.”

Out of everything they did, everything they ever dreamt of, somehow this was always the most embarrassing. They lifted the front of their skirts, trying not to do it too slowly, to show any hesitation. Their cock, nothing but average, with a ruddy bunching of foreskin still covering the head, stuck outward sharply. The steady, beating throb of it, and the glistening bead at the tip, marked them as truly useless and worthless, and the shame of it burned their cheeks.

“Pathetic.” the Hunter said. “I want you to crush your balls.”

The Choir member inhaled sharply in shock and struggled momentarily against the impulse to ask why, or if he was truly serious.

But he was the Hunter, and the Choir member was nothing. They could never say no, not to shame and not even to pain.

So they freed one hand from their skirts and brought it down to their scrotum, palming the sensitive testicles within. They paused a moment, then squeezed.

“Harder.” the Hunter said.

They stifled a whimper as they bore down harder, the pain coiling up into their stomach, making them gasp sharply.

“I don’t like overly eager sluts.” the Hunter said. “Makes my cock go soft. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No, sir,” they said, voice reedy and thin.

“I don’t want you to enjoy anything I do to you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.” the Choir member said, throat weak as tears threatened.

The Hunter watched as the Choir member struggled to keep applying pressure, shoulders shaking, the head with its blindfold cap tipped down, pink mouth parted in pain.

“You can stop once I see some tears,” he said.

The Choir member squeezed their eyes shut, already watering. They pressed their lips together, failing any longer to stop the small, keening whimpers from escaping their throat. It was what the Hunter wanted, and past the horizon of pain, it was blissful to endure his will.

Slowly one tear formed, and then another, and slid down their cheeks.

“Good.” the Hunter said. “you can stop now.”

The Choir member relaxed their hand, panting, leaving the tears streaming down their burning red cheeks.

“What do you say?” the Hunter asked.

“Thank you,” they breathed.

“Thank you, _what_?”

“Thank you, sir.” they said. “Thank you for reminding me that I only deserve pain, sir.”

“Come here.” the Hunter said. “Undo my belt.”

The Choir member shuffled forward again, but before they could even reach out, the Hunter said:

“Keep your hands behind your back.” he said. “Do it with your mouth.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

They lent forward towards the Hunter’s belt. It was a thick, wide piece of black leather, held in place with a heavy brass buckle. They did not think it would not be an impossible task, but it would be difficult, and slow, and they would feel ridiculous doing it, which was entirely the point.

They opened their mouth and sunk their teeth on either side of the belt, and then tugged. The Hunter watched them, hands idle, hips thrust forward. This close, the smell and the warmth of him slowly melted through the Choir member. The dark musk of leather, the acrid trio of gun smoke and powder and beast blood, and the tang of sweat over his skin. The Choir member flushed with desire again, cock engorging, throbbing at the thought of just how close they were to the Hunter’s cock. It was just past his clothing, just past a few layers of fabric, waiting. They staunched the desire within them to pause their work and find the thick shaft with their lips, rubbing them over the shape of it in his trousers, teasing themselves with the promise of its silky skin, its heady scent. It made their holes ache, made them feel like grovelling before him, forehead pressed to the earth, begging because they were not worthy, but they desired all the same.

But they had to be patient, and do only what they were told.

So they kept the thick, soft belt of leather in their mouth. They tugged more, attempting to free it from the brass tongue that kept it notched in place. They pulled, repositioning their bite on the leather, which was wet and slick with their own spit now, and they could do nothing but drool as they kept working, their spit dripping down their own chin. They changed angles, tugging again, and their chin rubbed for a second against the Hunter’s straining cock.

The belt fell from around his hips with a clatter.

The Choir member sat back on their heels, breathing hard, waiting for an order.

“You really struggled with that,” the Hunter said with fake, mocking sympathy. “Well? Go on—do the rest now. Like a good dog.”

The Choir member flushed with shameful pleasure at the name.

They came forward again, this time gripping at the fabric around the first button of his fly with their teeth. They tugged and yanked to get it undone, to quickly unfasten each one so they could bury their face against the musk of his groin and begin to lick. But it was hard, much harder than the belt, and they could not just feel the Hunter gazing down at them, but hear him laughing softly to himself as he watched.

Finally, the first button slipped out of its hole.

And then, so did the second. Both took longer than they had wanted, and the prize was little: the Hunter’s shirt was in the way, obscuring even a hint of even his pubic hair. They pulled harder and faster at the fabric, beginning to pant, beginning to whine.

When the last button was finally undone, the Choir member sat back on their heels. The Hunter’s cock strained against the button side of the fly, not yet released, but still lodged with the head down past the fork of his trousers. A lesser man’s would have sprung out already, standing eager and waiting for a mouth. But not his.

The Hunter pulled his shirt up from his trousers and tucked it beneath his waistcoat. In the darkness, the Choir member could just see the dark flesh of his stomach and the dark hair trailing over it, down into a dark nest.

“Open your mouth,” the Hunter said.

The Choir member opened their mouth.

“Wider.”

The Hunter pulled out his cock, and the Choir member savored a glance of it before they opened their mouth even wider, tipping their head back. His cock was broad and thick with a large head, a wide dorsal vein snaking along the top, and bent downwards slightly, too heavy to do anything else. The balls beneath it were weighty and large, drawn up tight.

“Stick out your tongue.” the Hunter said. “All the way.”

The Choir member did so, drawing it out so that it touched their chin. They ached with desire. Any second now, an arc of piss would break the air, splashing against their face and tongue. They breathed steadily, slowly, trying not to be too eager for it, though they craved the warmth of it, the salty tang as it filled up their mouth.

Instead, the Hunter surprised them by stepping forward. He slapped the head of his cock against the Choir member’s tongue, then rubbed it, pushing it in deep, testing their gag reflex.

“Let’s see how good of a slut you really are,” he said.

And the Hunter gripped the back of their head, and shoved it onto his cock, all the way down to the base.

The Choir member struggled not to gag, nose pressed against his dense, dark pubes. The Hunter’s hands were firm on their head, holding them still. They swallowed around the thick length of him, their chin pressed against his balls, nose buried in the sweaty musk of his pubes. Their eyes rolled with pleasure, their throat flexing, back arching as the Hunter’s cock nearly gagged them again.

“That’s a good slut,” he said, making sure his cock stayed buried fully in their throat, “You like that, don’t you? You like choking on my cock,”

They moaned, throat gurgling. Their eyes watered from the effort to be good, to be still and to keep the Hunter’s cock lodged as deep as possible in the wet warmth of them. But the Hunter ground his hips into their face and the Choir member gagged and tried to pull off.

“No,” he said, forcing their head back down. “don’t _fucking_ move.”

He slammed their mouth back down to the base of their cock. White spittle erupted out of the Choir member’s mouth around the thick shaft of the Hunter’s cock. The Choir member moaned and whined, the white line of their throat bulging with the Hunter’s thick cock shoved down it. Their cock ached. The Hunter removed one hand from the back of their head and stroked their throat, gripping the bulge of it.

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s so good. I’m going to dump a load right down your throat, you fucking faggot.”

The Choir member squirmed, unable to breathe, half-spent with desire.

Finally, the Hunter pulled them off. They coughed and gasped for air, their face bright red, strands of spit and throat juice stringing between their lips and the Hunter’s cock. The Hunter slapped his cock against one cheek, and then the other, then smeared his cock over their face, covering the Choir member in their scent, in the wet mix of their own throat being fucked. The Choir member ran their tongue out, cleaning up the thick, veiny shaft, then moved down, sucking on the Hunter’s balls. They swirled their tongue around one, then another, then took them both in their mouth and sucked, utterly filled with him.

“You like sucking on my balls, huh? You like that Hunter stink as much as you like getting throat fucked, don’t you, you fucking slut?”

“Yes, sir,” they said, nuzzling against the Hunter’s groin, marking themselves further with the scent of him.

“Tell me why,”

“Because it’s the only thing I’m good for.” they said, their face flushing. “I only exist to have big Hunters like you fuck my throat until I’m gagging on it.”

“That’s right.” he said and lined his cock up with their mouth and shoved it in deep.

Again their throat spasmed, gagging, bubbling with spit, and the Hunter pulled them off their cock, and then slammed their face back down on it, fucking the Choir member’s face on him as deep and hard as he could.

“Stick your tongue out.” the Hunger said, forcing the Choir member’s mouth down to the base. “Lick my balls.”

The Choir member ran their tongue out as far as they could, feeling the wet wrinkling of the Hunter’s balls slam into it over and over. It made it harder to not gag, but it was what the Hunter wanted, and so they did it.

“That’s it,” he panted. “that’s it.”

His breathing was faster now, his hips meeting the rhythm of his hands slamming the Choir member’s face over his cock. His chest heaved. He was going to cum down the Choir member’s throat soon, dumping his load straight into their stomach. The raw, brutal feeling of his thick cock reshaping the Choir member’s throat made their own cock throb, and with each pump they both grew closer and closer to climax.

The Hunter went first. He pummeled his cock deep into their throat, then held their head down, suffocating them as they began to shoot. The throbbing flex of his orgasm all the way down their throat made them gag again, and the hot, sticky globs of cum swimming in their throat made their own cock finally spill out and over, cumming pathetically against the stained robes of their garb.

“That’s it,” the Hunter growled, the hand at the back of the Choir member’s head gripping into a fist, pulling hair. “that’s it. You’re my fucking bitch, now. I fucking own you.”

♦

The Choir member dragged the back of their hand over their mouth and chin, wiping up the remainder of the mess. The Hunter stood before them still, cock half hard, dark head half covered. A cool breeze stirred, swirling into the alleyway, lifting dead leaves to skitter across cold stone. The Choir member coughed demurely, their throat raw and sore, glowing from the abuse.

“Did you cum?” the Hunter asked.

“A little, sir.”

“Did I say you could cum?”

“No, sir.” ashamed, again, but not regretful.

“Get on your hands and knees.” the Hunter said. “Face away from me.”

The Choir member turned around, placing their hands on the ground.

“Skirt up.”

They pulled the skirt of their garb up, exposing themselves. The rush from exposing themselves this time was smaller, came over them slower, their body somewhat confused from their orgasm—small and half-ruined—the desire in them swimming against a current of their still-aching balls. They arched their back, giving the Hunter a full view of their pussy, and waited.

The Choir member heard it before they felt it: the whip of leather through the air. The Hunter’s belt connected with the tender flesh of one upper thigh with a loud _smack_ , the skin singing in a rush of heat. They could only imagine the view: them, small and pale in their Choir robes, their ass exposed to the Hunter, still in his dark garb, ornate with brass, the fly undone to expose a cock slowly coming back to life. There would be one red mark against the back of their thigh, just near the hanging sack of their balls. Their face, could it be seen, would be bright red, flushing beneath the ornate filigree of the blindfold cap.

The singing whip struck the air again, and this time the smack landed firmly across each thigh, slamming over their balls. They yelped, falling forward in the shock of pain, the skin blistering.

“ _UP_.” the Hunter commanded. “Arch your back.”

They got back up, arching, and another strike landed, this time across their buttocks. Then another, from the other direction, and another, stinging the pale flesh of their ass red. The pain beat through them, throbbing with the beat of their heart, hammering into them a maddening, helpless desire for more. _Yes_ , they wanted to say, _whip me raw with your belt. Make me scream. Whip me until I’m bleeding and bruised, make me remember your hand for a week._

But this was not what this Hunter wanted. Some may have longed for cries for more, to instill their hand with more cruelty, but not this one. So they said:

“Stop, please, stop—”

“Shut up, you bitch.”

“It hu-urts,” they gasped as another landed, stinging across their ass. “It’s too much. You’re going to make me bleed—”

“Fucking Church slut,” the Hunter said, and another strike fell. “you piece of shit. You deserve more than this. This is nothing. I fucking hate this hunt. I fucking _hate it_ _and it’s all your fault_ _—_ ”

There was real emotion there in his words, in the severity of the strikes. They came faster, quicker, the breath of the Hunter ragged and raw. The Choir member leant forward, half collapsed from the strikes, their ass bright red, quivering from pain and the repeated strikes that did not slow. It burned. It burned and melted their head beneath their mask. Tears leaked from their eyes, unchecked sobs choking from their throat.

“I can relieve you,” they said, hands gripped tightly in fists. “Fuck me—fuck my ass—I can relieve you of this—”

“You think that will help? You think that will help any of this, you fucking slut—piece of shit slut— _I wish you were all fucking dead_ —”

The Hunter was closer now, the belt doubled, he was on his knees and striking indiscriminately now over the Choir member’s ass, his breath so hard and strangled he may have been crying. The Choir member saw nothing but his faint shadow over him against one stone wall, and even that was blurry, obscured by tears.

He grabbed the Choir member’s asscheeks, pulling them apart harshly, and buried his cock inside.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he said. “ _fuck you—_ ” as he started pumping, placing his hands on the small of the Choir member’s back for leverage, crushing them flat against the ground.

He slammed his hips into the Choir member’s burning ass, his raw and unlubed cock rough against their asshole. The Choir member shuddered with pleasure, the euphoria of it almost too much. It was like a blood high. Like the fresh, first waves of blood coursing through the body, making everything slow, melting, like liquid gold. Vision blurred, head rushing with the great, unbearable feeling that everything was alright. Everything was alright now. They were alive. They had never been more alive.

The Hunter slammed their cock in faster, breath hitching.

“Fuck—fuck— _fuck—_ ” he breathed. “I’m going to cum in you, you loose-cunted bitch—”

His cock spurted once, twice, and he slammed himself in, grinding his hips to cum as deep inside as he could. He moaned out a strained, crushing sound, that almost—against everything he had said—sounded like relief. The Choir member turned their head to look back over their shoulder, wanting to verify the look of relief on his face and the suspicion of tears.

The tears were there, shining over the dark plane of his cheek, and the relief was there, too.

But what the Choir member saw that they did not expect was another figure standing at the mouth of the alleyway.

It was the Hunter’s father. He had come back.

♦

“ _Hiram—_ ” the father said in what was either anger or shock. Then: “What—what the fuck are you doing to my son—”

The words were not directed at the Hunter, but at the Choir member themselves. In a scrambling flash, the son was out of the Choir member’s ass, out of the way, and his father was barreling towards the Choir member with nothing but pure, unfiltered rage on his face.

“First Ivo and now _him_ ,” the father said, grabbing the Choir member by their clothes and lifting them up off the ground. “What are you trying to do to me, you piece of shit,”

He slammed the Choir member up against the wall and punched them, gloved fist colliding hard with their mouth, slicing their lower lip open. Blood gushed, their vision went black momentarily as he drew his fist back again to strike once more, but the son was suddenly there behind him, grabbing his arm and holding it back.

“Stop— _stop_ ,” the son said. “It’s just a faggot, leave it alone—it didn’t mean anyth—”

“ _I told you to get out of here, I told you—”_ the Father raged in the Choir member’s face, not heeding his son.

The Choir member’s head swam, ass still on fire from the son’s beating, their lower lip swelling from the beating of the father. Spit and blood drooled down over their chin, splatting on the father’s hand as it gripped their collar tightly, knuckles pushed roughly up against the hollow of their throat.

It was violence, now. Real violence. The rush of euphoria was gone; it had been replaced with a slight panicking, an inability to catch a full breath, and the world slowly tunneled down, and down, and down…

“ _Leave my sons alone, you piece of shit—”_

The son’s grip faltered on his father’s hand, and his fist came smashing in again, this time across their cheekbone, knocking their head so hard against the stone behind them that they heard the sick knock of their own brain against their skull.

The world went a little darker, and then a little darker still, and the final smash of the father’s fist against their face sent them firmly into unconsciousness.

♦

The Choir member woke on the cold stone of the alleyway, and the first thing thing to push past the throbbing in their head was the feeling of deep, relentless pounding in their ass. It was not the first time they had woken to something like this during a hunt, but there was something wrong—different—here. They clenched their ass, testing it, and while there was certainly one cock in there, there was something else too. Something hard and somewhat cold.

“Oh god—” they said, still half delirious. “what is th—”

The Hunter lashed out grabbing their throat and crushing it in their hand.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled and ground his hips into the Choir member. “ _this is all your fault—_ ”

The Hunter kept fucking, hammering a rhythm that was not unlike the senseless humping of dogs in heat. He kept his hand around the Choir member’s throat. Something about this, too, was not right. The Hunter had shoved something—a weapon, most likely—up the Choir member’s ass, and was fucking them hard and fast. Perhaps their throbbing head was why none of it made their cock stiffen back into attention. The choking hand should’ve done it, the heavy, thick feeling of being overstuffed should have done it but…

The smell of beast was too thick. Frantically, with a knowledge so final they did not really need to check, they grasped the hand around their throat and felt it—coarse, dense fur.

It wasn’t a Hunter. Not anymore, at least.

It was a beast.

The Choir member twisted their head around, doing their best to look behind them at the thing that was fucking them. Past the swirling filigree of their mask they saw glimpses of it, and the sight coiled fear deep into their bowels.

The thing was not a man anymore, but neither was it fully a beast. His face was covered in patches of ruddy hair, and the eyes—they looked completely sightless. The pupils had collapsed into a murky swirl, and they twitched in their sockets as they looked down at the Choir member. He snarled, long, yellowed teeth bared, foaming with spit that blew and bubbled with each hot breath. It made their stomach turn.

And that, to their horror, made their cock stiffen.

“Mmmm gonna cum in you,” he groaned, “I’m gonna shoot, I’m gonna fucking shoot—”

And then, deep in their gut, they felt the hot spill of cum. The Hunter-turned-beast growled, snarling and bucking with each jet, head dropping down over the Choir member’s shoulder, the foaming spit of his beasthood dripping down wet over their neck. That, too, jolted down into their cock, the revulsion flaming a sick flame of desire. Their head pounded in rhythm with the throbbing of their own cock. The Hunter-turned-beast let go of their throat and gripped their waist, nails-turned-claws digging into the tender flesh.

“Feels good,” he said, and inhaled with a deep snarl. “So good over my cock,”

Orgasm over, he kept his cock still in the Choir member’s ass, and the Choir member, much to their shame found themselves clenching themselves around the length. It was incredible, the feeling of deep fullness so intense it made them shudder, causing a wave of sickness to rush over them. It was the claws, digging, too, and that horrible, disgusting glance of the collapsed eye, sightlessly looking down at them. They moved their hips, grinding their cock against the ground. They snuck a hand down and started stroking themselves, moving slowly at first and then faster, fucking themselves on the Beast’s throbbing cock. He was fully hard still, never having lost it for a second. Whatever else was inside of them jabbed rough at their insides, jolting with a dull, sickening pain, but it didn’t stop them. It felt good. It was wrong—the whole thing—and dangerous, and the rush of an orgasm might cause them to pass out again, but they didn’t stop. They jammed their ass up and down, sliding over the length of the Beast, who met it with his own thrusts, shallow at first and then gaining speed. The harsh breath returned. A splatter of saliva hit their back. They dared themselves to look back at him again, and cried out at the sight of it—tongue lolling, eyes rolling, the body moving with that strange rhythm that was almost human—but wasn’t.

They dropped their head against the ground, pressing their eyes shut. They tugged at their cock. The Beast picked up pace, leaving the Choir member to only be fucked like a rag doll.

It was quick, this one. The Beast panted and growled into his climax, and when it came he inhaled deeply and let out a long, shattering howl.

It ricocheted through the alleyway, the sound unmistakable and spearing fright and panic and disgust through the Choir member. This thing was in their ass—they had let it take them again, had started it themselves, fucking themselves on their gigantic beastly cock—and the knowledge of it made them cum, hard, spraying the ground and their garb with white.

Disgusting.

The Beast dislodged himself, letting thick globs of beast cum gush out of the Choir member’s well-fucked hole. The Choir member fought a wave of darkness as their orgasm ebbed away, their head throbbing painfully. They began to reach down for one of the vials they kept at their girdle, but before they were able to retrieve one, the thing behind them said one word:

“ _Beast,_ ”

And their body went cold.

 _Beast_. It had been soft—a whispered realization to himself. But it was not self-aware, not a man touching his own face and feeling the fur, or noticing the long claws where his nails had once been. The word _beast_ , this time _,_ had been accusatory.

The Choir member was the beast, and for all the Beast knew, he was still a hunter.

The Beast ripped out the thing it had shoved up the Choir member’s ass, causing them to cry out in pain, distracting them from reacting in time to the swing of the axe in the Beast’s hand.

It crushed against their side, cracking three ribs instantly. They cried out, their throat ragged and sore from the abuse of the night. They coughed, sputtering, the spasms shooting blinding pain up from their damaged left side through their whole body. They had the bare, distant thought that this happened sometimes—the hunters who turned into beasts ceased to be able to tell man from beast, and killed indiscriminately, unaware of who they were or what they had turned into.

They did their best to ignore the white-hot pain crushing their side and rolled to their left, evading another hack of the axe—this time, blade down. It sliced through the mantle of the choir garb, chipping the stone beneath it. The Choir member fumbled around their girdle, the adrenaline from the pain pumping through their body, making them suck in air hot and fast. No gun—of course not. They had taken that belt off after they had stationed themselves in the alley way. It was just a few feet away. They could make it. They had to.

They hoisted themselves up, still facing the beast above them and scooted back. The beast lunged forward, swinging again, and missed the Choir member’s foot by a mere inch.

The Choir member was near enough, they judged, and they flung a hand into the dark corner, fumbling for the feel of leather or the smooth cold metal of a pistol. The beast above them snarled and howled— _DIE DIE DIE—_ as they connected with the butt of the pistol and slammed it into their shooting hand.

Was it loaded? Unloaded? Their ammo was also somewhere discarded in the dark corner. No time to check. No time to load. The beast was swinging again. Only way one way to find out.

They shot.

The crack of the shot rippled through the alleyway, gunsmoke threading up against the shadows, against the blackness of the star-spotted sky. For a second, their side did not burn. Nothing ached, nothing throbbed.

They had shot the beast clean through its skull.

It staggered forward once, still intent to kill, and then its legs crumpled beneath them, body folding down until it hit the ground, hard, at the Choir member’s feet.

Their hands shook, still aiming the pistol as if ready to shoot.

They breathed shallow and fast, the night air cold in their lungs, and then all the pain rushed back in. Alive, yes, but barely.

They dropped the pistol, swooning back. They lost the struggle to rise again, or to grab a vial of blood and heal themselves, and fell back against the ground, unconscious.

♦

They woke to a violet sky of pre-dawn. They were alone, with the thin, empty smell of smoke surrounding them. They breathed in and cried out, eyes filling with tears at the jagged, grating feeling in their side. The Choir member pressed their eyes shut, trying to push down the pain, and fumbled around their girdle for a vial of blood.

Their fingers slipped over the loops, and found them all, horrifyingly, empty. No blood. Broken ribs, a concussion, a split lip and something in their left knee did not feel quite right, and they had no blood. Not even one single vial.

This time, their eyes swarmed with tears not out of pain, but out of fear. It had gone too far. They knew it would happen one day. They had ignored it, though, still choosing to go out every Hunt. Deep down, though, they knew their appetite could not reasonably be fed without it one day killing them.

The Choir member tried to lift themselves up on their elbows and failed, pain ricocheting too severely through them to allow for movement. They collapsed back on the ground.

It was hard to hold the tears back. It had been a hard life, made harder still by growing up and living in a place like Yharnam. They should have tried harder, they thought, to be normal. To be like everyone else. But it was fruitless. Perhaps another version of them could have done it—could have been a man, could have found a lover with typical, inoffensive tastes who satisfied them. But thirty-something years of trying, and it had never stuck. They kept coming back to things like this. Stupid, desperate things.

Was this how they were going to die? Pitying themselves until a beast came along and finally polished them off? They probably had a few more rounds in their ammo bag, so they could stave off the inevitable a few times, provided the pain didn’t interfere with their aim.

They sniffled, pain in their ribs flaring, and reached up to pull off the blindfold cap. It revealed a face that was not exactly beautiful or handsome, but rather plain. They knew this. That’s why the garb had changed everything, not just for the Hunters, but for them too. It hid them completely, not just a face that could be tracked down outside of the Hunt, but what they looked like at all. They had never stirred much interest from others, but the garb, that dazzling white, the firmly starched collar, the mask that hid the eyes… it transformed them. They had finally, for a little while at least, been able to be themselves. Barely discernable as male or female, existing only as the beautiful, sexless figure of a member of the Choir. They had been _desirable_. To so, so many.

They held the cap against their chest, tears spilling out over their temple and into their hair. If they were going to die here, they wanted do it like this, being able to at least see the sky.

The violet hue lightened slowly, stars receding into the light. They almost slipped back into sleep, or perhaps it was unconsciousness, and then they heard the sound of footsteps. Steady, well paced footsteps. Verifiably human.

Their chest surged with excitement. It was probably a hunter or two doing final sweeps before the hunt finally ended, making sure they had checked every corner for beasts. And here—well—they would find not a beast, but someone in need. They would be rescued. They lifted their head up, doing their best to prop themselves up on one elbow, and saw the only thing that could be worse than an approaching beast.

The figures came forward slowly, unhurried. There were two of them, just like the father and son, except they were not hunters. Not exactly. They wielded fine weapons both, each holding a silver threaded cane that glinted in the light of the early dawn. At their hips hung the great and mysterious Rosmarinus, ready to expel a heavenly arcane mist. On their heads were great, wide caps made of the softest, fine grain leather, each bearing a filigree mask that covered the upper half of their face.

It was the Choir.

They had been caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The father at the end refers to another son, Ivo, who died during the hunt. It’s not like the hunts are making all his sons queer… he just lost one of them recently and is also queerphobic and thinks the church is “corrupting” Hiram by getting him into fuckin some non binary ass. Also, Hiram is like, mid-late twenties. And already queer. Too late, dad!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Well if you read all of that, thank you. I know the two hunters are kinda similar, but in my defense I like what I like. Also, I’m fucking tired like on a spiritual level and this is the best I could do right now. The end line kind of sucks but like.... I think you know what I'm getting at. Hunters wanna hatefuck Choir members and honestly I can't blame them.
> 
> I have a loose plan for where this story is going, but if you have ideas for what else our little cum dump might get up to, feel free to let me know below.


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